Amy laughed, “No, I’m the command element. Father sent me to relieve you.”
And just like that, Margaret’s rage was a creature lose in company, a mongrel dog allowed into the dining room. Chomping at hands, yanking meat from the table and defecating in the corner. Her face screwed up in anger, lips peeling back to show her crooked, yellow teeth.
“You?”
Amy recoiled, stepping back with her hands up and palms out. They were black, save for the horizontal lines that ran down her palms and joints, “Dad told me you were going to retire. You’re retiring, aren’t you?”
Margaret’s fists were clenched, shaking, her neck tensed, and her tongue was thick with a thousand words she wanted to yell. Amihan Lopez was a junior battlewitch, unable to command her powers any better than Ramona. “Manticore is our secondary battlewitch, it's her role to accept, not yours.”
I coddled you when you wept for your mother, I taught you everything you know.
Margaret worked to keep her thoughts to herself, maintaining a degree of decorum. Soldiers of the 9th Battalion began to detour around the two women. They knew that Amy was now at odds with another inclined witch. The acrid air around them was choler and tasted like old pennies. It spun up into a wide, shallow, dust devil that was carving a thin circle around them in soot.
“It wasn’t my call Mayy,” Amy’s nose wrinkled, along with the ink on her face, “you act like this is beneath you. Wouldn’t you be proud that I was chosen to take your place?”
Margaret was at a loss for words. She huffed out an aggravated note, back stiff and chin upturned defiantly at the taller woman, “I served twenty years as your father’s lead battlewitch, and when I decide to retire, he installs his daughter to replace me? What have you done to make me proud?”
Amy stepped back, putting roughly a yard between herself and Margaret. There was no hint of anger in deep brown eyes, but for a second it seemed to Margaret like she might run.
“I just wanted your respect, Mayy. I wanted to be a battlewitch like you and my grandmother.”
Just like your grandmother.
Breathing heavy, chest falling and rising, Margaret poised as if she was about to take a swing at the larger woman. No amount of control could keep Margaret’s temper in check, and her eyes were wide with rage, a smile stretching her face with foul sarcasm.
“Congratulations, you’re just like Maggi. A self-centered and self-interested bitch.”
It was a shout, and once it escaped Margaret’s lips, she couldn’t take it back. The 9th Battalion soldiers around them all heard it.
I shouldn’t have said that.
Amy’s eyes turned dark, and her mouth parted. She looked as if someone had slapped her, and though she’d never trade tears for insult, hurt crossed her face. Margaret felt something in Amy crack and recognized the sound of splitting wood.
Looking around her, Amy turned back at Margaret, aware that she was now on display for her unit to see. They’d remember this, they’d talk about it, they’d gossip later.
“I’ll take it as a compliment, if you say I’m just like The Bruja.”
“Her name is Plague Dog,” one of the 9th Battalion sneered at Margaret, moving to the side, and standing directly behind Amihan Lopez.
“She’s the Plague Dog,” another one said, younger by far, a patch worn over his eye, face red and swollen from injury, “and she saved my life.”
One by one, more 9th Battalion members joined her. They felt the trade of hostility between Margaret and Amy, no matter how uninclined they were. It was a siren call, the smell of fresh baked bread or the hum of a mother’s lullaby, “Maybe I deserve your title after all, Mayy. I’ve been in the field fighting with the 9th. When was your last battle?”
Reno, I last fought at Reno. Two years ago, before the fall of House Owens.
“We should talk privately,” Margaret realized what this had become, she could feel searing hate, and there was no way she could communicate anything to Amy here, with her men.
“Why not here?” Amy shrugged, cinching her lips, her face moist with sweat and grime, “Why don’t you tell my men how you inspire loyalty?”
“We should talk privately,” Margaret repeated, it was her turn to take a step back, separating herself further from Amihan. The confrontation was out of their hands, and Amy was placating a crowd.
I need to leave, I can win nothing here, Margaret thought.
“Dogs of War,” Amy shouted to roughly two dozen 9th Battalion soldiers, each one as dingy as her, “this is Lady Mayhem of the 3rd Army. You might have heard of her, the legendary soldier slut. Her regiments follow her because she’s fucked most of them.”
The 9th Battalion erupted in laughter, energy shifting once more. Amy was wielding it as a weapon now. As she moved her hands, each finger was trailing edges of string and tether. It wasn’t the same as Margaret’s magic, but the mob was at her control, and the taste had turned to sour oil, stale pepper and rattled lust. They were eyeing Margaret with loathing, a base need to cause pain for the sake of pain. Oozing animus and avidity, the Dogs of War wanted to rip Margaret’s face off, rape her to death and light her on fire, just because.
What have you become, Amihan?
“Fuck you,” Margaret showed her teeth, not willing to flee with her tail between her legs. She was backing up, toward the gates of Stockton, her hands down and ready to wield real magic in her own defense. She wouldn’t show them barriers or let them know that she considered them a threat. They’d mistake it for fear, and Margaret would never have displayed such tawdry emotion.
Amy didn’t answer her, and her mind was locked too tight, but at the edges of her energy, in the shadows of greasy hair, and stained fatigues, Margaret could taste the familiar hurt. It was the same bitter chew of Maggi’s relentless regret.
“I should have fucking left you in that parking lot.”
Margaret wanted to be angry at her niece. As angry as she’d always been, for her impulsive nature, but the only one she was angry with now was herself.
6:02pm February 27th, 39 Veilfall
Stockton, California
“Let’s skip the red and yellow gown, Janet,” Margaret whispered, her voice no more than a spring mist on window panes, “in fact let’s skip all the gowns and dresses. I don’t wish to present like an Owens aristocrat.”
Margaret studied the charcoal paintings of her boudoir, fingertips drumming softly on a marble top vanity. It felt cool, forgiving, oil light causing her own sketches to be free and withering in a stage act.
Janet inquired, “Perhaps, Lady, I can make a suggestion?”
Nodding, Margaret acknowledged her, turning to see what she’d return with. To her surprise she’d gathered a molle corset and a very short, burgundy skirt, made from velvet and chiffon. The corset was field gear, practical and black with D-hooks and elastic fasteners.
“I’m not sure how I feel about that,” Margaret blinked, leaning back, crossing her legs. “No, maybe I do know. This is an Antecedent banquet. Only officers from the 3rd Army garrison and the 9th Battalion will be there. I’m a battlewitch, not a real Lady.”
When was your last battle?
Amihan’s words bounced around in Margaret’s head. It wasn’t that she doubted herself, it was that Margaret genuinely believed Amy was right, the implication that she’d become soft and pampered behind Stockton’s walls, that she’d lost her edge, and her taste for blood.
Margaret studied her reflection as Janet fixed the skirt and began lacing her corset from its center. Her hair had been styled, puffed out and full around her face, held with a mixture of alcohol, sap, oils and attar. Violet shadow crossed her eyelids, moving out toward her temples, and her lipstick was made from paraffin wax, olive, lard and ground roots.
Margaret absolutely wanted to stand out as much as the outfit suggested she would. She relished the idea of turning heads away from Amihan, even Ramona.
What would Townsend’s subordinates think when the woman
of their dreams sauntered in, at his arm, dressed like this?
No matter how excited she found herself, the confrontation with Amy did not subside in her mind. She could not let it go or move on to more pleasant thoughts. Amihan was not the woman she’d been. There was brutality in her eyes, clutching at her lashes and crawling across her rosy-tan cheeks.
“Fetch me the brown-suede boots, the ones I like, loose around the ankle,” Margaret nodded to Janet once her corset was fully trussed, an overbust sweetheart, black coutil cotton with velvet bias strips, and a series of leather panels binding the molle.
The skirt was too short.
Janet returned from one of Margaret’s closets with the suede boots when there was a knock at the front door. A silky cool tone stole at Margaret’s mind, and she felt her niece close at hand, a familiar vibration in the air that only Ramona left behind. One of Margaret’s other servants would offer admission.
“Get yourself some dinner. I’ll want a few moments of privacy,” Margaret told Janet as she finished tightening the straps at the back of each boot heel.
“Of course, Lady,” Janet rose, before leaving the boudoir. Waiting for Ramona, Margaret withdrew her 9mm from a table. She dropped the magazine, checked it, then slapped it back into the pistol before racking the slide to chamber a round. The weapon fit neatly in one of her midsection holsters, latching snugly into the molle web of her corset.
Ramona’s dress was supported by her own sweetheart corset, like Margaret’s, strapless, exposing her narrow, curved shoulders. Her skin was a glistening bronze like windows catching dusk light, and her perfumes were an escort of their own device, arm in arm with her, sauntering through the room, lilac, cloves, benzoin, and storax. Her shadowed eyes didn’t menace, they were deep pools of still water and storied ecstasy.
“Always with your damn tit-holster. It's not nearly as attractive as you think.” Ramona shook her head, eyeing Margaret’s pistol for several seconds.
Gods be fucked, she’s beautiful.
“Putting your aunt to shame?” Margaret saw no point in suggesting otherwise, Ramona was every bit the Hetaera she claimed.
Ramona didn’t answer, rather she smirked and glanced around for a place to sit. Margaret gestured to an over plump chez lounge near her northward window. It was green and gold, embroidered by hand, a gift to Margaret from one of the 3rd Army officers after the fall of Reno. It wasn’t nearly as comfortable as it was gorgeous, a humbling piece of art that she loved.
“You’ve made Amy quite angry,” Ramona sat, bent forward and fingers clutching down towards her bare shins, “she spent hours lamenting the southern gate.”
Margaret bit her lower lip, then remembered her lipstick and waved both hands out furiously, “I’d speak with you, about that, if you’d listen.”
For a moment Ramona examined Margaret, oil light dancing off her eyes, the twinkle casting her as something more innocent, “My sister and I have rarely been of the same mind, but Amihan adores you.”
Margaret didn’t choose to avert her gaze or cower, she’d considered these words well and repeated them in her mind, “It's been a long time since you and Amy were my charges, together. How would you say I’ve treated your sister?”
Ramona’s face changed, and when she spoke, it was slowly, with chosen tones, “If I only ever told you lies, the one truth I’d like you to believe from my lips is that Amihan has worshipped you since she was a child. You were her battlewitch hero, she followed all your teachings, she never took a god as her own. While I’d never trade your favor for the world, she and I both know that you never cared for her as much as you did me.”
Margaret’s pulse was a rhythmic surf, her tongue dry and thick. As she considered her reply, a second knock at the door came, this one louder and firmer. It was almost certainly Lieutenant General Townsend.
“Seat the commander in the dining room, I’ll be out shortly.” Margaret shouted past her hall, unwilling to leave this conversation immediately.
Ramona shook her head, and her tone returned to its more natural clipped, sing-song rhythm, “You wanted me to save the Empire from Amy. The only one who can save anyone from Amy is you. She’s not Maggi. She’s the witch you trained her to be.”
She’s not Maggi.
“She’s not Maggi,” was all Margaret could say, a dull victrola of her thoughts spat back to the air, for no benefit besides her own hearing.
Ramona’s slender lips narrowed, barely smiling, “You’ve treated her as the unwanted child her entire life. What did I ever do to make you love me so much more?”
It was truer than Margaret wanted to admit. All these years she’d looked at Amy as a resurrected Maggi Lopez, a young fire eater who loved brawling. The girl had been impossible to discipline as a child, and while Ramona had sat quietly for meals, Amy had been the monster, pressing every button Margaret had to offer. She had fought on everything, challenged every lesson, deliberately went out of her way to anger her aunt. It seemed a forgone conclusion that the child took after her grandmother, that she’d end up a hard-drinking misanthrope who no one really loved.
Margaret’s lips pressed tight, slowly shaking her head, before words erupted from parted lips, “She always got under my skin.”
Ramona shrugged in reply, separating her palms as though she held a delicate vase of antique ceramic, “I wonder how often you got under your mother’s skin.”
Left to an endless sea of her own imagining, Margaret realized she had also been that child. She too had challenged every lesson that Maggi set forth, she’d disobeyed her mother’s instructions, and for every time Alexander tricked her into a sadistic trap, Margaret herself created plenty more trouble without anyone’s help.
“What have I done?”
Margaret didn’t speak the words, but her lips moved regardless.
Ramona didn’t answer that question. Rather, she unfolded her legs and stood, a fluid motion, both graceful and sensual. “I won’t see you tonight. That was the other reason I came to visit, to wish you well in your evening.”
Pulled away from a revelation, Margaret looked up to her favored niece, genuinely disappointed, and working to hide it from her face, “Oh? And where are you headed?”
“Lord Owens and I have dinner.” Answered Ramona.
On any other night, Margaret could have bristled at the idea of her junior winning over Lord Owens. Perhaps even an hour ago, she would have been pricked by the casual rejection.
Margaret offered a smile every bit as warm and supple as buttered bread, fresh from a wood burning oven, “I’ll see you another night, then. You can join me here, and you can drink to my retirement.”
Ramona’s returned smile was not nearly as warm, nor did she answer.
I deserve that, I suppose.
Before Margaret left her boudoir with Ramona, she unlatched the holster at her corset, squarely mounted under her breasts. For a rare moment she was self-conscious, considering the beautiful Hetaera, and she sat the pistol down from where she’d retrieved it.
6:44pm February 27th, 39 Veilfall
Stockton, California
Returning to the dining room, Ramona offered polite excuses to the Lieutenant General, gathering a coat from near the door to see herself out. Margaret followed, offering a goodbye, but Ramona only answered with a blown kiss. Not even a wink, or nod.
At her departure, Margaret took a moment to gather emotions and truss them up neatly about her mind. She didn’t want to betray Townsend’s grace with an ill temper.
Turning in her suede boots, she spied Townsend standing at the dining room table, eyes lost in shadows, examining Margaret’s artwork that consumed every inch of wall. His hands were clutched at his back and he was still, in both mind and body.
“Townsend,” Margaret smiled, for only herself, “am I allowed to promote you? Lieutenant General is an awkwardly long rank. General is so much easier on the tongue.”
“Ahh,” Townsend looked around the room, stepping cautiously, as thou
gh he was watchful of traps, “That’s a bad idea.”
“Probably,” Margaret nodded, “I have poor impulse control.”
Townsend seemed uninterested in the banter, his voice trailing for a moment, as he studied the murals behind Margaret, “What are these?”
“Nothing.” Margaret shook her head, glancing over to the etchings, then back to Townsend, larger than life in his blue and white dress wool. His cap was pushed sideways at a clever angle. By rank, he was allowed to wear the ribbons of every battle he’d commanded, whether or not he fought. Judging by the narrow collection over his heart, he’d chosen to disregard that privilege and wear only what had been earned in blood.
Don’t lie to him, idiot, he’s interested.
“No, they’re something.” Margaret corrected herself in a soft stutter.
“Is this your work? You’re an artist?” Townsend approached another wall, this one an entirely different vantage point. Margaret had painted these a year earlier; they were memories of the Nebraska plains, unending fields of golden grass and a sky that seemed large enough to swallow her army whole.
“All of my life.” Margaret’s cheeks heated, and suddenly she was embarrassed.
You don’t need to pretend you care, I’ll fuck you all the same.
Margaret would have slapped herself, if it wouldn't have made the scene even more uncomfortable. The thought annoyed her, second guessing herself in Ramona’s wake. That was another one of her rules, set in granite, a rule that she wouldn’t allow to be broken: no one commanded her confidence.
“I had no idea.” Townsend gestured at the deep onyx sketching, visibly lost in the art.
He’s not pretending.
“I started sketching as a kid,” Margaret squared herself away, approaching the man, much more confidently now, “I used my mother’s eye shadow at first, then found charcoal. When I moved out on my own, Maggi and I stopped talking the way we used to. When I asked her things, when I tried to share with her, she didn’t listen. She always said a good witch doesn’t paint the room with her emotions. I was a teenager, and angry, and I wanted to do just that. I painted all the rooms.”
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